


it follows from this

by seularen



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Flashbacks, Hand Holding As A Main Form Of Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seularen/pseuds/seularen
Summary: And now it was “After.” Aziraphale couldn’t find any way around it. After they had faced Satan himself. After they had tricked their way to freedom. After they had won themselves peace. After they had saved the world. After…





	it follows from this

**Author's Note:**

> Salem gave me the prompt: "iron, liquor, mercy." I hope you enjoy it, dearheart <3

_3 I foretold the former things long ago,_  
my mouth announced them and I made them known;  
then suddenly I acted, and they came to pass.  
4 **For I knew how stubborn you were;  
** **your neck muscles were iron,**  
**your forehead was bronze.**  
5 Therefore I told you these things long ago;  
before they happened I announced them to you  
so that you could not say,  
‘My images brought them about;'  
Isaiah 48:3-5

 **ONE. Iron.**  
In their history together, there had been only three times Crowley managed to wear down Aziraphale's stubbornness and get what he wanted. ***** Two times included copious amounts of expensive alcohol; Crowley still included these, of course, because nefarious means were the spice that elevated the ends. The third, though. He included _that_ memory in his most valuable possessions. He didn’t think of it often, in order not to wear it thin--a strangely reserved stance for a demon, but Crowley was strange even by demon standards. _Covetous_ , that was what he was. That was a sin, after all, and sounded altogether more evil than _lovesick_ or, G-... Someone forbid, _reverent_. No, covetous was it, and it had served him well; that memory had gotten him through the rough times. Though, by definition, there is no time rougher than averting the apocalypse, and today was hardly the apocalypse. Unless you counted “being rained out of your picnic” apocalyptic, which seemed to be Aziraphale’s stance on the matter.

Watching him work himself into a state, Crowley knew Aziraphale would lead the afternoon where all their conversations had been leading lately: Aziraphale’s existential panic about What To Do Now, which in turn was a not-very-convincing mask for his deeper panic on What To Do About _This_. They hadn’t been a This since 1862 **†**. Now there wasn’t much to be _but_ a This, what with going against Heaven and Hell together, pulling one over on the most powerful beings in existence, and that pesky business of _swapping bodies_. Aziraphale had _been_ him, for Someone’s sake, and _now_ he was going to turn sheepish?

Crowley sat with Aziraphale on the bench inside the gazebo as the rain fell. He could have sat further away--the bench encircled the entirety of the interior--but decidedly waited until Aziraphale sat, then pressed his leg against the angel’s. The angel spluttered, looking up at Crowley as though he’d just suggested murdering the obnoxious children yelling in the distance. Crowley raised an eyebrow at Zira, daring him to do something about it.

Three successes, in twice as many millennia. Quite pathetic, really, if you didn’t take into account Aziraphale himself--his intellect was only outmatched by his assiduousness. ‘ _You’ve picked quite the one to fall in love with, my boy,_ ’ Crowley told himself gamely, leaning an elbow on the railing and pretending to listen as he let himself remember in a way he hadn’t for a very long time.

It’d been London, 1862. A few months before The Argument. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly six months, assignments taking them abroad with little overlap. Now summer had come, gracing London with sun, and Crowley called on the angel early. He could have sent a message ahead, but knew Aziraphale would overthink it, perhaps even pretend not to be in if his disposition was particularly agitated. Social visits had still been new for them and surprise was the best tool against the angel’s occasional moral reticence. It had worked splendidly that morning. With hardly any effort at all, Crowley had swept Aziraphale’s things into a suitcase and Aziraphale himself onto a train.

“May I ask where I’m being taken?” Aziraphale asked after Crowley sauntered past ticketer and porter to a first class car. Crowley miracled their tickets and handed one to the angel, who read,

“Hastings?” Aziraphale looked up, delight spreading across his features. “Bradshaw’s mentioned it rivals Brighton this season,” he murmured approvingly, and Crowley smirked. Bradshaw was one of theirs, his monthly hand-books encouraging jealousy and rivalry among both business owners and wealthy Victorians with little else to do but impress each other. With each publication, low-level Envy spread throughout England; the best part was, after the initial setup of the thing, all Crowley had to do was get out of the way and let the man work.

“Yes, what _did_ he write about it?” Crowley asked, his innocence not at all convincing, except to the angel.

“Ah,” Aziraphale recalled, “that it was picturesque and r-romantic **‡**.” The angel’s cheeks colored; Crowley’s grin could have been convicted of several crimes.

“But _we’re_ going because I know something Bradshaw doesn’t.” He leaned over conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority that the chef at Queens Hotel was, before his current post, _pâtissier_ at Claridge’s.”

“ _Really_?” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley leaned back in his seat, triumphant. He had him.

The ride to Hastings and the subsequent dinner was pleasantry itself. It was no challenge trapping Aziraphale in conversation--the angel was clearly lonely. Crowley could relate; "try discussing fashion trends with Azazel," he'd once snarked after a delightful hour human-watching with the angel in a town square outside Rome. For the first few centuries, he'd promise Aziraphale information to stop a plot from Hell, and every time Aziraphale tried steering the conversation that way, Crowley would refill his glass, ask him about new acquisitions, point out any human and throw insults until Aziraphale felt moral obligation to defend them. It had taken him some time to become used to the idea that talking with someone could be _pleasant_ , rather than mere exchange. It had been a learning curve. At times, it felt like Aziraphale knew exactly what was happening, especially when he ran out of topics and Aziaphale would say things like, “You could ask me about my new snuffbox,” or “Do you know when they’ll finally invent the crossword?” or “Perhaps you could remind me, my dear…”

These days Crowley didn’t have to try quite so hard, and Aziraphale needn’t be quite so forgiving. They’d established their own shorthand, born of necessity, argument, and camaraderie. So, when Crowley set down his sherry on the balcony of the Queens Hotel and said, “Tempt you to a moonlight swim?” he knew Aziraphale would hear ‘I know you’ve been eying this place for months, angel,’ and when Aziraphale said, “Well, if you insist,” Crowley would know he meant ‘I’d been waiting for you to ask.’ Aziraphale understood the pleasures of Earth because he loved Earth; there was goodness to be found in enjoying God’s creations, and Aziraphale was nothing if not _good_. Crowley understood that Aziraphale felt guilt indulging in any pleasure, no matter how small, because angels weren’t supposed to feel such things. He’d seen the angel deny himself just as often as he’d let himself indulge. Crowley gave himself no small credit that the overall trend had been towards the latter. It was the kind of thing that made a demon proud.

Victorian conservatism suited the angel. Even their ridiculous bathing costumes seemed like something Aziraphale would have sketched in his journal. Crowley took every opportunity to stare. Aziraphale discreetly preened under the attention **§**.

“It’s emptier than I’d imagined,” the angel said as they waded out.

“Humans are fickle about their body temperature, I think.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s true.” Aziraphale tilted his head towards the sky; God’s firmament stretched out above them. “Which is the furthest one you’ve been to? The stars, I mean.”

“Haven’t been to any.”

“What!” Wide eyes turned to meet narrowed ones.

“They don’t go in for vacations down there.”

“Well, no, I didn’t expect--but before, you never…?” Crowley shook his head. “But you helped build them! And they never let you visit?” Crowley scoffed, digging his feet into the rocky sand.

“Do you remember them being keen on us taking breaks when we were creating the universe?”

“Well.” The angel took a step towards the demon, and pointed up. “That one?”

“Mm?”

“I lent a hand on that one. Humans will name it Icarus in the future.”

“What’d _you_ call it?” Crowley asked, knowing the right questions from practice. Next to him, Aziraphale swirled the water with his hand, disturbing their reflections.

“Oh, you know we didn’t have names for them back then.”

“I always named mine. Don’t remember ‘em anymore,” he lied. “Been too long.”

“Would you like to visit them?”

“What, _now_?”

“No,” Aziraphale laughed, then stuttered, “U-unless, I mean--I _suppose_ no one would notice if we were quick about it...”

“As much as I admire your scheming,” Crowley turned a smirk to him, and their eyes caught--in the moonlight, Aziraphale looked luminous. Who needed stars, anyway? “I like where I am. Much less work.”

“Mm.” Not knowing what to say (or, more accurately, not knowing how to say it or where to start), they fell into comfortable silence. Waves broke against sand and rock; Aziraphale walked forward into deeper water, submersing himself just once, portioning out his joy. Crowley moved slowly to join him; he didn’t understand what Aziraphale could possibly like about any of these sensations, but then, he thought that about almost everything Aziraphale enjoyed.

By the time he rejoined the angel, Aziraphale half-floated in the sea, his content smile as bright as the stars he helped create.

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. This is--”

“Ugh, _don’t_ ,” Crowley tried to interrupt him, but Aziraphale continued,

“It’s _lovely_. Truly. You’re too kind.”

“You’ve ruined it, now.”

“Have I?” Aziraphale disturbed the water, coming close. Crowley turned his head, and Aziraphale was right there. Hair matted down, eyes wide with something Crowley didn’t recognize. They stared at each other a long moment, and Aziraphale seemed to be searching his face for something.

“Angel, I--”

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed his cheek. He lingered and Crowley inhaled deeply, wanting to take as much as he could. He caught bergamont, and beeswax, and stardust from Rigel Kentaurus.

“There,” the angel said as he pulled away, “A recompense.”

“Zira…” Crowley swallowed. In the life of a demon, there weren’t many moments more important than The Fall. But this was another kind of falling altogether.

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” The angel shifted so their shoulders barely touched, softening the blow. In the water their hands floated next to each other, ripples colliding where no one could see. Aziraphale looked out at the horizon, but Crowley didn’t follow his gaze. “Isn’t the moon beautiful on the water?”

“Divine,” Crowley agreed, still not looking at the moon.

 

In retrospect, Crowley could admit to himself that a trip to the seaside to bathe at midnight could, perhaps, have been seen as _fraternizing_. In the strictest, most _boring_ sense of the word. And, maybe, he could understand why an angel would want to run away afterwards, if said angel was wound tight as a spring.

It still didn’t justify anything that happened next.

But it didn’t ruin the memory either. Crowley was an expert compartmentalizer.

 

 **TWO. Liquor.**  
( _Of the other two times, he likes this one best:_ )

The boy is six. They have five years left. No idea if the plan will work, if you could call it a plan at all. More than enough reason, then, to drink enormously.

Aziraphale couldn’t keep his head up; he’d been resting it on his desk on and off since their third bottle. Crowley lay on the floor, next to chair in the bookshop’s back office. They’d gotten drunk in this room nearly once a month since the boy had been born. Heeding the home office seemed less important than ever, these days. And spending time with each other, well. When they thought about it, was there anywhere else they’d rather be?

“Maybe, after all this…”

“A picnic?” Crowley quoted curtly. “A bite at the Ritz, was it? You promised me that fifty-two years ago.”

“Well. I-” Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed as he searched. “It was a good promise.”

“Was it.”

“Yes! I’ve,” Aziraphale tried gesticulating, but gave up rather quickly. “I’ve never promised anyone anything before, you know.”

“How would I know that?”

“You... well, because. You know everything about me.”

There was not very much one could say to _that_. Reckless, with a heart on fire, Crowley raised himself from the floor. Before Aziraphale could say or do anything, he set his head gently in the angel’s lap.

In 1905, Albert Einstein published a theory of special relativity, which was finessed into what we now generally call “well, you know what Einstein said about time.” It was such a successful idea that by the time he spoke in Princeton on the topic in 1921, the physics community had already generally accepted his findings into their fold. Nevertheless, Einstein gave four lectures called “The Meaning of Relativity” to those Princeton scholars defending his theory, saying, among other things, “The idea that Mach expressed, that inertia depends upon the mutual action of bodies, is contained, to a first approximation, in the equations of the theory of relativity; it follows from these equations that inertia depends, at least in part, upon mutual actions between masses.”

Einstein would have saved himself, and Princeton, most of their weekend if he’d skipped the lectures and simply recited the poem a future Princeton poet would write in 1984. These were the words that would later loop in Aziraphale’s head as he remembered Crowley’s coarse hair under his fingers: “ _Time is what makes these separate moments ours/To hide in, to give each other,/Or to give away; the rest are just invented/Fragments of the future we can never hope to see._ ”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale managed to say in the moment, all poetry and sense having abandoned him. Crowley heard his panic from a great distance. Everything lay suspended in front of them: motes floated down in the pale sunlight. The hand on his head, when it moved, was gentle and comforting, petting just the top of his hair. Crowley closed his eyes, imagining himself a pillar of salt--he _did_ know his angel, and kept very, very still.

“One day, angel,” his slurred voice was also coming from very far away, “you’ll invite me upstairs. And I’ll let you do whatever you want with me.”

The hand slowed. After a moment, nails scratched lightly at his scalp; a satisfied hiss escaped him.

“If you’ve thought about it as much as I have, and I know you have, because you’re right, I do know _everything_ about you, then you’ve got a list as long as mine. I’ve been wondering what’s on yours. What’s on an angel’s list to do to a demon? Vicars and tarts?”

“Dearest, no.” The hand cupped the back of his head and the body above him bent over to kiss his forehead. “That’s--” A light laugh rumbled through the legs he rested on. “Oh, you wouldn’t understand. But I’ll show you someday. After this is over, if we survive.”

“After.”

“Yes, after.”

“That a promise?”

“A promise,” the angel agreed.

“Seal it with a kiss?”

“Don’t push your luck.” But the hand tucked his hair behind his ear, and Crowley drifted to soft fingers tracing the outline of his tattoo.

 

 **THREE. Mercy.**  
And now it was “After.” Aziraphale couldn’t find any way around it. After they had faced Satan himself. After they had tricked their way to freedom. After they had won themselves peace. After they had saved the world. After…

It was raining. The gazebo sheltered them from the elements, but little else. It was absolutely _no_ help against Aziraphale’s encroaching panic.

Aziraphale had known things would be different, but he hadn’t expected to feel so empty. Crowley felt free without the threat of Hell lurking, truly free for the first time in his life. Aziraphale wished he could feel the same. Heaven’s orders had sometimes been inconvenient or ineffective, but the intent was always _good_. Without the rules he’d followed for so long, he found himself adrift, uncertain how to act. Not just with Crowley, though that certainly occupied a large portion of his worrying quota. He had been created to guard against the forces of Hell. Crowley had promised that he would be able to fulfill that destiny again, eventually; he remained convinced that Heaven and Hell would come for Earth, but had reluctantly conceded Aziraphale’s point that between the paperwork and diplomacy needed for a joint attack, it would take centuries for both sides to, as humans said, get their act together. What was he supposed to do in the meantime?

It was the dozenth time they’d had this conversation, and though he knew he was being a bother, Aziraphale simply couldn’t help himself. He sensed Crowley tuning out, which was fair; he’d expected the demon to leave a dozen times already--was, if he was being honest (and he had a moral obligation to be honest at all times), hoping if he whinged enough Crowley would get sick of him. Only, (that blasted honesty again,) he didn’t want that at all; every time Crowley left, Aziraphale felt a terrifying loneliness that only abated when the demon re-entered his sights. The century he’d slept had been truly miserable. He’d spent so long refusing to acknowledge what he already knew that meant; acknowledging it, acting on it, would have put Crowley in danger. He never would have forgiven himself if he’d brought Hell down on Crowley’s head. Crowley would have-- _had_ , constantly--said he didn’t care, but Crowley hardly knew what was good for him. How could he? He was a demon, for heaven’s sake.

Agitated, he brought out the picnic basket and rifled through. Crowley perked up.

“Getting the wine?”

“The camembert. But the wine does pair wonderfully…”

“Anything to shut you up,” Crowley said, more reflex than anger. He gestured for the bottle, and Aziraphale handed it over.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule,” Aziraphale said, looking out at the weather. “I’m sorry, I know I promised.”

“Of all the things-- _Angel_ ," Crowley growled. "You _promised_? Promises are supposed to mean something to you people."

"They do!" Aziraphale blinked rapidly. "There will be other days for picnics, I’m sure. And we could, well, we could spread out the blanket here..." He looked around the dusty gazebo, hating to dirty his good picnicking blanket, but willing to make the sacrifice.

“That _isn’t_ the one I mean.” Crowley’s tone made him look over, and he found the demon had taken off his glasses. As far as dramatic effects went, it was quite effective: Aziraphale had always cherished seeing his friend’s eyes unobstructed.

“I’m not sure--” He began weakly, but Crowley cut off his lie.

"Oh, yes, let's wait until you're _sure_. Perhaps another apocalypse will spare me after the first few eons." Aziraphale's chin ducked. It was true, and sloth was a sin. But so was everything else Crowley asked of him.

Then again, they’d survived the Apocalypse by reasoning that no one truly knew God’s Ineffable Plan. Maybe he’d gotten it wrong entirely, what he was supposed to do—maybe free will _wasn’t_ just for humans. ‘ _I don’t see why it matters what is written,_ ’ the boy, Adam Young, had said, ‘ _not when it’s about people. It can always be crossed out._ ’ Well, they weren’t people, exactly; but Heaven and Hell had proclaimed them something else--not celestial, not earthly. What if…

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Crowley,” he said. What if nothing had been written for beings such as them? What did freedom mean to creatures created to serve?

“Zira.” Crowley frowned, and despair clenched around Aziraphale’s heart. “...Please.”

Over the years, Aziraphale had compiled a comprehensive dictionary of Crowley’s nonverbal communication. Right now, Crowley’s head tilt said ‘ _i’m waiting for an answer_ ,’ his spread hands said, ‘ _you heard right, angel; what are you going to do about it?_ ,’ and the furrow between his eyes pleaded, ‘ _I’m in misery, when will you release me?_ ’

But this (very nice and accurate) translation was completely unnecessary; Aziraphale didn’t need it to know why they were here, and what Crowley was asking. He would be a very poor angel indeed if he hadn’t heard his friend’s prayer; it hadn’t changed for centuries.

Reading his mind, Crowley leaned in. Aziraphale’s mind helpfully played a reel of all the other times they’d been this close, and how he’d frozen then, unable to walk away, unable to lean in. “Have mercy, Zira,” Crowley whispered.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. He swallowed and raised a trembling hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “But that isn’t what you want.”

“It’s what you’re giving, isn’t it?” Crowley angled his face ever-so-slightly into the soft palm. “I’ll take it. כִּי חֶסֶד חָפַצְתִּי וְלֹא־זָבַח וְדַעַת אֱלֹהִים מֵעֹלֹֽות” **‖**

“Alright,” Aziraphale said before he could stop the word from escaping. “Alright, my dear.” Crowley closed his eyes, and Aziraphale’s heart _hurt_ wondering, ‘ _is that what he looked like when he prayed?’_ “It’s okay now, Crowley. It’s--just us. Our own team, like you said. Our own terms.” He said it as much for his own benefit, writing them a new script as he spoke. “We can live any kind of life we want. I-I,” his words ran out. He found the courage the Almighty had given him and leaned in, kissing Crowley gently, an absolution.

It came to him like revelation, as he felt Crowley hiss against his mouth. He’d been missing it all this time. And so obvious! In his joy, he broke apart and then kissed Crowley again, this time properly, pouring the overflow of his heart into the thing.

He was an _angel_ ; he was made to serve Her.

Surely love served Her best of all?

 

 

 

* That is not entirely true. What Crowley wanted was _everything_. What he settled for was something else entirely. This story is about that settling.  
† There was a moment, in Berlin, 1985… but Crowley didn’t believe in failure, and so had struck that night from the record.  
‡   
§ Crowley was still wearing his glasses, but that was of little concern to Aziraphale: angels can see through souls, a little darkened glass isn’t going to stop them.  
‖ There are as many translations of the Bible as there are people to misinterpret. Aziraphale has read them all, and typically prefers the translations that capture the _feeling_ of the thing. In this case, he would point the reader to the New Living Translation of Hosea 6:6: ‘I want you to show love, not offer sacrifices. I want you to know me, more than I want burnt offerings.”


End file.
